


"Hershel"

by goldenregit



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:00:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenregit/pseuds/goldenregit
Summary: An evening aboard the Bostonius, a dream, and waking.





	"Hershel"

**Author's Note:**

> My first shot at a Layton fanfic. Enjoy! Also, I know the location and timeline doesn't really work but I wanted to use the setting of Froenborg.

     The icy night air of Froenborg swept the five investigators into the center room of the Bostonius, leaving them with a shiver even after Emmy shut the door behind them. The white glint off the dashboard helped guide Desmond to the bridge where he hit the switch for the lights. Bathed in an orange glow, he, Emmy, Aurora, the Professor, and Luke slumped into various pieces of furniture, letting out involuntary groans. 

     The day had inched along. Question after question left them with nothing more than continued ambiguity and frustration. Their progress was marked, not by answers, but by miles and aching footsteps. It had taken until the falling sun and the first chill wind for the Professor to declare the day’s efforts null and suggest that they head back to the airship for much needed rest. Met with raucous agreement, he led them back to the Bostonius, which was moored near the southern tip of town.

     A muffle came from the sofa cushion nearest Luke’s buried head.

     “What was that, Luke?” asked the Professor.

     “I’m hungry,” Luke said, turning his face just enough for the slurred statement to escape the cushion.

     Desmond offered to have Raymond bring a small tray out for him. When his gesture was met with silence followed by a small snore, he knew Luke had fallen asleep.

     “Not even the promise of food will keep him awake today,” said Emmy. “If that doesn’t speak to our state, I don’t know what does.” Removing her boots, she sighed. “I only wish we had something to show for it.”

     Always the optimist, the Professor reassured her. 

     “We’ll continue our search tomorrow, Emmy. There still remain a number of resources we have yet to check. Perhaps one of them holds another piece to our puzzle.”

     “Meanwhile, Targent’s got hundreds of men and vehicles at their disposal.” Emmy crossed her arms and tucked into her side of the sofa beneath the bridge. “I’m sure they aren’t resting a single moment.”

     Layton noticed Aurora’s eyes shift downward; her forehead creased.

     “I have faith in us,” Layton said, smiling. “We’ll find our solution soon enough.”

     At that, he had expected Aurora to look up - made hopeful again - and return his smile. She only turned her back to the room to lay next to Luke, her expression unchanged. Layton’s face dropped, his eyes taking on a vacant glaze as he allowed the fatigue to settle in.

     After a moment, Desmond spoke. “We’ll get there, Professor. Of that, I have no doubt.” He was sitting on the edge of the cot in the corner of the room opposite Luke’s and Aurora’s sofa. His fingers gripped one of the cot’s side rails. “After all, we really can’t afford not to.”

     Layton rose slowly so as not to disturb Emmy and took a deep breath. He glanced once more at Aurora.

     “No we can’t, can we?” he said.

     As Layton made his way up onto the bridge, Desmond followed him closely. In Desmond’s eyes swam a strange intensity that wavered in and out - like the look of a person transfixed by a candle flame. Desmond watched as Layton paused a moment before the captain’s chair. Layton placed his hand upon it, his gaze set on something in the distance, far outside the window of the airship. 

_      No _ , Desmond realized, recognizing Layton’s expression.  _ He’s looking at something else, something that’s not there. _

     Soon, a stream of broken images began to flood his own mind as he looked at Hershel Layton.

     A dusty driveway.

     A tidied room.

     An empty house.

     As if struck by a bright light, Desmond clenched his eyes shut and spun his head the other way. His knuckles were white, the rail etching itself into his palm. Desmond opened his eyes and glanced backed up at Layton to find him now sitting in the captain’s chair, still staring pensively out of the ship’s windshield. Desmond kept his eyes on him for a moment longer, his gaze softening. After he brought his eyes down, he took his glasses off and swung his legs up onto the cot.

     “Good night, Professor,” he said.

     “Good night,” came the absent reply from the bridge.

     When he could hear the soft snores of the ship, Layton slowly reached out to extinguish the lights. Within a few moments, silence had blanketed itself upon every surface with stillness as its close companion. Layton was left with nothing but the vast mural of night painted onto the glass before him. His gaze found solace in the falling snow, the stars, and beyond that, the deepest expanse of the unknown.

 

* * *

     A warm breeze brought forth the rustling of leaves and the swishes of tall grass blades as they danced against one another. Everything glowed - the sky, the trees, the hills, the house - all of it imbued with the golden radiance of the summer sun. Beautiful afternoons as these were common in the quiet English hamlet that this young boy called home.

     He sat, cross-legged, in the backyard of a modest, two-story cottage. Half shaded by the protection of a full oak tree, the boy “unearthed” various trinkets and oddities from the ground beneath him, brushing off crumbs of dirt from each crevice. He held them up to the light and examined them with a furrowed, concentrated brow, turning them this way and that. Rays of sunlight cast morphing shadows across their surfaces as the boy took note of each defining characteristic. One by one, the objects were laid neatly in a line next to him. Ancient artifacts. His discoveries.

     He beamed at his accomplishments and turned his head to face the sun. He squinted and his small features became squished, giving him an even younger, more cherubish appearance. Another breeze fluttered through the trees and down to the boy to kiss his red cheeks and ruffle his feathery brown hair. As though it were the emissary of this summer day, a bright blue bird lighted upon a low branch of the oak tree. The boy stood to greet it.

     The bird chirped and twittered, hopping lightly along the branch. Dapples of sunlight through swaying leaves provided spotlights for the tiny bird’s little scene. With his head slightly tilted, the boy examined the little creature as he did his artifacts. His eyes were wide and glittered in the golden light. Watching this simple moment of life before him released all tension in his small body. He felt the warmth on his skin, the clear air through his lungs, the smooth wooden handle of the brush in his hand. He was quilted in a perfect blanket of serenity and quiet joy. He smiled and closed his eyes.

     “Hershel!” 

     A woman’s voice called from inside the cottage. 

     “Come inside my dearest!”

     The boy opened his eyes. The little bird had gone - continued its journey through the open countryside. 

     A contented smile still on his face, the boy laid his brush beside his treasures and ran into the comforting arms of his home.

 

* * *

 

     Desmond was roused by a voice above him. Slowly, as though someone was steadily raising a dimmer switch, each of his senses took shape, emerging from the ethereal sea of sleep. Though he didn’t recall covering himself with a blanket the night before, he felt a soft, woolen warmth enveloping him up to his chin. The savory scent of cooked meats and baked breads wafted over him. He breathed deeply then sighed.

     The voice was closer now. Clearer. A woman’s.

     “Professor!”

     Emmy called to Layton from the stairs near the bridge.

     “Come see this!”

     Desmond opened his eyes. Sunlight reflected off the thick sheet of morning snow and through the windshield of the Bostonius. Squinting, Desmond could make out the two curled up figures on the sofa. Next to them, the table was laden with a steaming breakfast, all set out on trays with jugs of juice and a pot of tea. Desmond smiled lazily. 

_      That must have been Raymond. _

     He lifted his head a bit to see the Professor descending the stairs that led from the second story. The Professor’s face was creased with slight concern.

     “Emmy,” he whispered, nodding his head towards the still-sleeping figures. “Please.”

     Desmond heard a hushed apology from the bridge. 

     As Layton arrived in the center area, heading for the table of food, his eyes met Desmond’s.

     “Oh goodness,” he started. “My apologies, Professor Sycamore, we didn’t mean to wake you.”

     Something about how prompt Layton’s regret was - how worried he seemed at their, honestly, negligible discourtesy - amused Desmond.

_      Always the gentleman, _ he thought.  _ I’ve woken up to worse, Layton. _

     “It’s alright,” he mouthed, the sheepish grin still on his face.

     Layton smiled at him and asked, “Are you hungry? Raymond did us all the wonderful favor of going out into the village to fetch a fresh breakfast. Or I’m assuming he did. This was all here before we awoke.”

     “He really is too good,” Desmond said. “I’ve no idea what I would do without him.”

     He stood up with a groan and stretched. Instantly, his whole body seized as a sharp pang rang through his muscles. His hands moved to cover his face as the pangs swelled, churning within his aging frame. But soon, as always, the stabbing dissolved into little more than pinpricks and a throbbing discomfort, the wear and tear of the years oozing through his body like molten metal. He had become accustomed to it. The pain. The aches. They wore like a coat he could not shed. He sweltered in the summer heat and in the winter he was protected only while standing in the midst of the elements, rain and wind slashing lines across his exposed face. 

     Desmond watched as stars dashed mischievously across the backs of his eyelids like a nauseating taunt - bruised colors fluctuating with the pain. Only he could see them. Only he could feel this dreadful cacophony of injuries.

     “Are you alright?”

     Desmond’s eyes shot open and he flinched at a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up and found Layton’s eyes set on his. For a moment, he tensed, the intrusive gaze and the hand on him unfamiliar sensations. A moment longer, though, and he realized that Layton’s query was not so intense. His expression was actually rather gentle, tinged with only mild confusion, and his fingers barely rested on Desmond’s arm - just enough to exhibit genuine care. 

     Realizing he hadn’t yet answered Layton, he blinked and rearranged what had to be his slightly shocked expression into something more relaxed.

     “Yes, I’m quite all right,” he said. “Thank you, Professor.” He punctuated this with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

     Layton returned it and dropped his hand. “Good. Now I think it would be wise for us to have some breakfast before it gets too cold. We still have much to uncover and we should continue our work as soon as possible.”

     Desmond stood for a few seconds more, allowing himself to breathe and collect his scattered thoughts. Once he was settled, his mind grounded, he put on his glasses and moved toward the bridge. Passing Emmy on the stairs, he bid her a good morning and raised his head to look outside. 

     The snow had stopped falling. Left behind was a shimmering white blanket upon the ground and a brilliant blue sky. Dampened by the night, the world’s rich colors reflected across Desmond’s eyes with a kaleidoscopic flush. From behind him came the clinking of plates, the shuffling of steps, and the murmur of voices as Layton woke the two youngest passengers. 

     Luke, naturally, protested.

     Emmy, as always, teased him.

     Layton and Aurora chuckled softly.

 

     And Desmond, turning back to them, smiled.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had started imagining what the Layton series would be like if it were a TV series and this is the result of my musings. The three sections are three separate scenes, the two on the Bostonius connected by the flashback sequence in the middle. Viewers unaware of Desmond/Descole's true identity would think that the middle sequence was a memory of Layton's, one he was recalling as he stared out the window of the Bostonius during the first scene. After all, who else would "Hershel" be. However, once it's known that Desmond is "Hershel", it becomes obvious that the middle sequence is actually Desmond's dream.


End file.
